Sometimes Blossoms, Sometimes Thorns

I while back, I made tzatziki sauce to go with gyros, and I ended up buying live mint instead of dried leaves. I ripped the all the leaves off, the violence of the act dawning upon me only upon seeing the barren stalks sticking up from the bottom half of a soda can filled with potting soil, but I was nonetheless determined to make it grow. Winter, by the way, is not the best time to start an herb garden inside your kitchen window, but for one reason or another, the October snows were hesitant to hang about for more than a couple of days at a time, and that means that little Minty for a time enjoyed the leisure of sunbathing on his windowsill balcony, overlooking the lawn.

Minty grew big and strong, and the sun battled the clouds for as long as it could before the cold set in, before the swift-footed cirrus and the billowy hordes of cumulonimbus cast their shadow on the land. As is often the case when someone making great progress is beset by obstacles, Minty started to get discouraged, and I could see that his green confidence was fading in the face of opposition. I decided to set him on top of the oven, hoping that a little warmth would cheer him up, but I found out the hard way that the oven apparently provides for more than just a little warmth. Pretty soon, Minty's lower leaves shriveled up his stalks gave way. I think I killed him.

For now I walk in shadow and confusion, but then will I walk in light, for you shall be my lamp. You will be the spark to kindle fire within my breast. You shall be my every memory, my new philosophy, my enigma. You shall be the wonder that I ponder each minute of my waking reality, and you alone shall inhabit my dreams.

Tears are sorrows...

Tears are sorrows. Sometimes, when you cry, it's out of sadness, and the tears well up because there's not enough room inside of you for all the pain. And sometimes, when you cry, it's out of joy, and the happiness fills you up, and the tears well up because there's no more room inside of you for any sorrows.

Psych Ward: A Vilanelle

A dressing gown, a light, and fresh-cut grass–
My vision flashes red, my body shakes,
My heart, a stone, this cell made out of glass.

They gave me yellow pills that taste like brass,
And Betty brings me Salisbury steak,
A dressing gown, a light, and fresh-cut grass.

Before they brought me here I’d sit in class,
And hark, what light from yonder window breaks
A heart, a horse, a cell made out of glass.

They said hallucinations usually pass
Within a day or two. Can’t stay awake...
A dressing gown... a light... and fresh-cut grass?

A storm of convict thoughts that flee en masse
From there within my mem’ry’s lucid lake–
A heart, a shout, and pounding on the glass,

And leather straps, syringes... laughing gas.
And later on the aide will feed me cake,
A dressing gown, a hall, and fresh-cut grass!
Within this mind, this cell made out of glass.

Sahara

Calloused feet
leave five-toe prints
in still, soft sands,
still hot, still waiting
for night's cool reprieve;.
A long, thin shadow
trudges across an ethereal expanse,
a fragile frame fading
into a blood red sun
as it slips silently
over the darkening dunes.
And the desert– the desert
breathes out a tired sigh,
and footprints melt into the winds,
swirling off into the twilight sky.

A Stranger in the Corner

It’s like when you've been sitting near a campfire and then you turn away into the black night and your face still tingles with the heat; your skin feels tight and dry, and the fiery figures still dance before your eyes and then are lost in the endless night. And you glance back for a moment, and you’re flashing in and out of the flames, and then the images fade, and the fire dies, and the quiet night sets in.

I step down from the airplane onto the jetway, and the dry, summer air blasts my face. After more than twenty hours of crowded terminals and cramped, economy-class middle seats, I hobble along the walkway on wooden legs, lugging an old American Traveler bag stuffed with as many heavy items as the frayed, black canvas cloth or the dull-toothed zipper can possibly hold. My coat pockets bulge with the journals that I kept while in Ukraine and with whatever else I managed to cram in at the last moment. Up ahead of me is the portal, and there’ll be a lady there who gets paid to look nice and smile and say, “Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas,” over and over and over. I can already hear the familiar clink of quarters from the slot machines in the terminal, and cigarette smoke is just beginning to tickle my nose with the smell of home. I feel as though with each step, the airy mists of some perfect dream unravel behind me and trickle off into nothing. Twenty four months wash by me in an instant, and for a moment I wonder if it has all been just a dream.

A Poem of Love...

Gertrude

I love the way you pick your nose,

The chipped nail polish on your toes,

Your crooked grin, your frizzy hair,

Your absent look, devoid of care.

I love your cakey, make-upped face,

Your manly gait, devoid of grace,

Your rumpled blouse, your sauce-stained skirt,

Your cheeks begrimed with soot and dirt.

Your hoggish snort and loud guffaw

Reduce me to dumbfounded awe,

And when I see your monstrous feet,

My flutt’ring heart nigh skips a beat.

In beauty naught surpasses now

Your bristle-brushy unibrow.

And I’ll not fear the touch of death,

When thinking of your rancid breath.

Your stubbled chin oft to behold

Is better boon than purest gold,

And if true love be hard to find

Then glad I am that you are mine.